Edmund's Dilemma
by Tap Canfield
Summary: Post-LWW, pre-PC. Peter and Edmund are back at school following the siblings' return from Narnia. Peter has been acting differently for a while, and Edmund is concerned. As time passes, things get worse. Is Peter's behaviour so insufferable that Edmund may be caused to betray him...again?
1. Birthday Boy

EDMUND'S DILEMMA

CHAPTER ONE

(BIRTHDAY BOY)

April, 1941

The worst part of having a birthday at school was having to go to lessons all day when you really wanted to run about and celebrate. Those were Edmund's thoughts towards the closing of his Maths lesson on his eleventh birthday. Apart from the choruses of "happy birthdays" from friends and the traditional round of the bumps, it was really a day like any other. The masters treated him just the same, and were certainly not prepared to ease the workload on account of it being eleven years since his birth. He had, in fact, received a sharp reprimand from Mr Donohue, the French teacher, for failing to turn in a piece of homework. As this was the first incident of this kind all year, Edmund had been let off with a warning, but had been warned that a second occurrence would most assuredly result in several raps on the knuckles with the ruler.

It wouldn't have done any good, of course, for Edmund to explain to his teacher that he had been worried about his brother of late. Short of bereavement or serious illness, very little in the way of extenuating circumstances were accepted by many of the masters. "We're here to prepare you for life in the _real world_," Mr Donohue would remind them, "and these excuses simply will not do in the _real_ world."

As onetime King of Narnia, Edmund had had more than his fair share of challenges. Preventing war, engaging in war…he had come close to losing his life on numerous occasions. But he had grown to an adult in Narnia and always, always, he'd had the support of his siblings, who were always there to help share the burden or give him a comforting hug or kiss if he needed it. He'd also had the many loyal friends and subjects to turn to. In England, he was very much a little boy again. A little boy imbued with greater wisdom and knowledge than previously, yes, a boy in many ways wise beyond his years, but still a child, a tender, vulnerable child.

Normally, when something was concerning him, Edmund would have Peter to turn to. This time, however, Peter was the _source_ of Edmund's concern. Since the start of the January term, there had been a slow but perceptible change in Peter. He had become more bossy and irritable, less inclined to show patience with something or someone that was annoying him, and more likely to flare up instead. He was too polite (and fearful of punishment) to answer back to the masters, but there had been a change in Peter's attitude towards them as well. Less helpful, a touch less reverent. Sometimes, in his eyes, the other boys saw something like impatience and annoyance with the teachers. Not the ordinary schoolboy annoyance, something…deeper.

Edmund thought he understood. Sort of. It was hard to say, since Peter hadn't confided anything to him. But, being as close as they were, Edmund could usually make an educated guess at what was troubling his brother. Peter, he surmised, was having difficulty adjusting to life as a fifteen-year-old schoolboy when he had so many memories of being High King Peter the Magnificent, adult monarch of Narnia. This had been difficult for Susan, Edmund and Lucy as well, to an extent. They had each found themselves a puzzling mix of child and adult, naïvety and worldliness, innocence and cynicism. It had taken them all some time, but the three younger Pevensie siblings had all reached a place in which they were happy with themselves. For Peter, this was not so.

Edmund was more than willing to be patient with his brother. He well remembered the angry, uncooperative and resentful child he had been in the eight months or so before their adventures in Narnia. His siblings, along with all of Narnia, had forgiven him his act of treachery, which Edmund still rebuked himself for. If Peter could welcome his little brother back with open arms after what _he_ had done, then he could surely remain loyal to his older brother throughout his own bout of less than exemplary behaviour. He could not deny that it could be difficult, though. In the last six weeks or so Peter had become harsher with Edmund, giving him orders, ticking him off for minor things, and showing very little appreciation for anything Edmund did for him. If Edmund bothered Peter when he was busy, he was more than likely to be met with a scowl and a retort, but if Peter wanted to spend time with him when Edmund had things to do, he would snap at Edmund for being selfish and ungrateful for his sociability, until Edmund felt bad enough that he put aside what he was doing and tailed along with Peter instead.

He sighed, pushing his textbook to the front of the table as he heard the master announce that the class was shortly ending. Things would get better. They _had_ to.

And, he reflected, on the way to the school's general office, they were about to. Or the day was about to get better, at least. Now that it was four p.m. and lessons were over for the day, he had a chance to go to the office and retrieve his post. His family had always been very good about birthdays and he was certain they were not to let him down.

Twenty minutes later, he was returning with letters from his mother and sisters, as well as a couple of packages – a new sweater and some chocolate from Mrs Pevensie, a book and a penknife from Susan and Lucy. Now all that remained was Peter's gift.

He found Peter in his year group's study room, his head down; shoulders slumped, writing something – presumably an essay. The room was empty save for themselves as, with lessons having only just ended, the last thing the boys wanted to do was yet more study – they were either clowning around in the common room, playing outside, or had taken the opportunity go into the local town and explore some of the shops. He had not expected to find his brother until the evening, but was glad to have caught him now. He cleared his throat.

Peter jumped slightly and turned around. "Oh. Edmund. Hello," he said flatly.

Edmund tried not to let his disappointment at this rather unsavoury greeting show in his face. This was the first time they had seen each other today. No happy birthday?

He gestured to the sheaves of paper on Peter's desk. "Working hard?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact." They stood gazing at one another in silence, Edmund feeling more awkward by the minute until Peter said, "Look, Ed, you know I'd love to talk, but not now, all right? I've got work to do."

Edmund was used to this kind of brush-off by now but that didn't make it any less hurtful. He swallowed. "Fine. I'll…I'll see you later tonight, then."

"Maybe," came the curt reply. Peter was already sitting back in his chair, back turned.

Edmund paused at the door. "Mum – Mum and the girls wrote," he said.

Peter turned again. "Did they? Leave their letters here, then, and I'll read them later."

"No, they're not for both of us," Edmund told him. "Just me. For, you know…my birthday."

And, with a sinking heart, as he saw the flash of guilt in Peter's eyes, saw him clench his teeth in exasperation, he knew his older brother had forgotten his birthday.

Peter, for his part, had the good grace to cross the room and take his brother by the shoulder. "Ed, I'm sorry. I really am. I've just had so much to do…" He knew his reason sounded trite, but what more could he say? "You'll get your present this weekend," he added.

"That's not the point," Edmund said in a low voice. "It's my birthday _today_, Peter. How could you…you _never_ forget…"

"I said I'm sorry, Edmund. You'll get your present soon. There's nothing more I can do for now."

"All right," said Edmund, his voice shaking. "It's nice to know that I'm so well thought of, that you can forget my birthday at the drop of a hat, when I've been talking for _weeks_ about how much I've been looking forward…"

"Oh, don't be such a child, Edmund," snapped Peter. "It's not the end of the world."

Edmund didn't want to cry in front of his brother. With a snort, half of anger, half of sorrow, he left the room and hurried up to his dormitory, clutching the gifts from his mother and sisters as though they were his only possessions in the world. Once alone in the dormitory, he let the packages and letters fall to the floor, lay down upon his bed, and allowed the tears to come.


	2. Going Downhill

CHAPTER TWO

(GOING DOWNHILL)

Late April, 1941

Two weeks had passed since Edmund's birthday and the situation hadn't improved.

He'd had some hope, brief hope. A humble and apologetic Peter had approached Edmund the day after his birthday, card and gifts (a new stationery set and a book on mythology) in hand. Embarrassed and somewhat breathless, he had given the younger boy a clumsy hug and reiterated his apologies for the day before. Edmund, just thankful to see a glimpse of Peter's former self, was only too happy to let bygones be bygones. For the next few days, Peter had gone out of his way to be extra kind to Edmund. But it didn't last. By the end of the week, Peter had reverted to being grumpy and standoffish and had practically bitten Edmund's head off when, upon entering the fifth formers' study, he had taken Peter by surprise and caused him to spill an inkwell over a piece of homework. Things had gone downhill from there.

As a result of his worry, hurt feelings and the beginnings of anger, Edmund had once again forgotten to finish his French homework and entered Mr Donohue's class with a heavy heart. He was pleasantly surprised, however, to find his English master covering the lesson instead. Mr Hopper (affectionately known as "the Hop" by his pupils) was one of the few teachers who seemed to truly understand and care for children and was prepared to let boys be boys to a degree. He would only use corporal punishment for the most severe of transgressions; failure to turn in homework regularly would lead to reprimands and detentions, but no smacks of the ruler or the cane. He took an interest in the boys and their extra-curricular activities and was often happy, at the weekends, to join in a game of football or, if he had time, take a group on a day's outing. He was also one of the few masters who would address the boys by their first names instead of their surnames. He expected respect and, as he was liked by most of the pupil, he usually got it.

The French class was a more relaxed affair than usual, but when the time came for the homework to be handed in, Edmund stiffened. He had already handed in a late piece of work for Mr Hopper's English class, which his teacher had accepted with barely a murmur. He hated to have his favourite master see him slipping in his schoolwork again. He wanted Mr Hopper to think well of him.

"A little careless of late, aren't we Edmund?" the teacher asked lightly, when Edmund admitted that he had not finished his French work.

"That's the second time he's not done his French homework, sir," piped up a rather spiteful boy whom Edmund had never gotten along with.

"Thank you, Jeremy," said Mr Hopper mildly. "I think it's time I was letting you out into the grounds. The bell will ring any moment."

The bell rang as the other boys made their way to the door. Edmund stayed seated.

"I suppose Mr Donahue will let me know when he wants me to report to him?" he asked tentatively.

The teacher frowned slightly, his eyebrows looking even thicker. "I'm not sure I understand, lad."

"I'm due a few raps of the ruler," Edmund expanded.

Mr Hopper saw the light. "Oh! I don't think we need let Mr Donahue know about it this time. We'll just keep it to ourselves, eh?"

Edmund nodded thankfully. Mr Hopper's leniency was probably influenced both by his own sense of fairness and by the fact that it was well-known that he and Mr Donahue did not like each other. They had had a rather public spat in the lunch halls last year and, although both generally strove to remain professional, boys would occasionally hear the odd jibe from one about the other, or see a scowl when either's name was mentioned to the gentlemen.

"Penny for your thoughts, Edmund?" said his teacher softly.

Edmund looked up into Mr Hopper's kindly blue eyes – eyes that reminded him of Peter's – and suddenly felt the need to share what had been bothering him. "It's my brother, sir," he admitted.

"Peter Pevensie? What's the trouble with him?"

"Well…" Edmund wasn't sure if he would sound silly or not. But he pressed on. "He's been…_different_ lately. For a while, actually."

His teacher was nodding his head, as though he understood. "Yes. I've noticed a change in him too. He's quite blunt with his schoolmates now, less considerate than he used to be. He's falling behind a bit in his schoolwork too."

"He is?"

"Yes. I was rather wondering if you might know anything about it, but I didn't like to trouble you."

Edmund, of course, had his suspicions, but it was not as if he could share those with Mr Hopper. He would be at the nearest asylum within the hour. He shook his head. "I'm…I'm not sure, sir. I think he's been having some difficulties, but what they are…I don't know. He hasn't been very open with me."

Mr Hopper nodded sympathetically. "I can tell you're worried about him."

"Sir." Edmund gazed at the adult pleadingly. "What should I do? There are some days when I can't get this off my mind. I want to keep up with my work. But I…"

"All I can suggest for now," Mr Hopper said slowly, "is to let Peter come to you in his own time. He's a good lad. I'm sure he'll talk to you about what's been wrong eventually. In the meantime, I know it's difficult, but you'll have to try to support him as best you can and be patient with him. _Do_ try to make sure it doesn't interfere with your schoolwork. I know that can be more easily said than done, so I shall be quite prepared to excuse some further lapses as long as they don't build up too heavily. I think all I can say is…try your best, Edmund. Try your best."

"Yes sir."

The teacher smiled. With his mop of soft, greying hair and crinkled lines in his face, he rather resembled an old teddy bear. "You're a good lad, Edmund. You're a lot like your brother."

"Am I?" Edmund had always perceived Peter to be his superior in many ways. He'd never really given much thought to any similarities.

Mr Hopper reached out and tousled the boy's hair. "Come on, Edmund. Let's get some fresh air, shall we?"

* * *

"WHAT have you been telling the masters about me?"

Two days had passed since Edmund's conversation with Mr Hopper. In need of some quiet reflection, he had come outside after supper and had perched himself between two trees in the grounds. He enjoyed the peaceful feeling that he gained from watching the evening light twinkle at him, hearing the swish of the leaves as they swayed in the breeze. He felt as though there were a silent communication going on between himself and the elements, a telepathic communication, deeper than any words could go.

Jolted out of his reverie, he saw the angry fifteen-year-old standing over him, looking taller than ever, and fiercer than Edmund had seen him in a long time. Glaring, he repeated his question.

"WHAT have you been telling the masters about me? Answer me!"

"What?" Edmund blinked, startled. "I – nothing, Peter."

"You must have told them something! I've just had a very _interesting_ talk with Mr Hopper. He wants to know if I'm _all right_. Says you've told him I've not been myself. He wants to know if there are any _problems_ I'm having." Peter fairly spat out the last sentence.

"I did talk to Mr Hopper, but he's the only one. I've been worried about you, Peter. You _have_ been acting differently, you can't deny that."

"It's not your place to go around telling tales about me!" fumed Peter. "Brothers are meant to take each others' side. Or have you forgotten that?"

"Of course not, Peter. I'm always on your side. I…"

"Do you know how _humiliating_ it was?" the older boy continued. "To have Hop approach me – when I was with the other boys, mind – and tell me that my little brother was concerned about me. He asked me if I was having any troubles that I'd like to talk about! I felt like a child! Do you have any idea how disempowering it is to be utterly _shown up_ in front of your peers…"

"I didn't mean for…I – I didn't think…"

"No, of course you didn't," Peter griped. "You _didn't_ think and you put me into an embarrassing situation. It's time you used your mind, Ed. You're like a kid again."

"I am a kid," Edmund said quietly.

"You're a king of Narnia, or had you forgotten?"

"Of course I've not forgotten," Edmund said evenly. "But we're not in Narnia now, Peter. We're in England. It's 1941. We're _children_ again."

"_I_ am NOT a CHILD!" Peter barked. He sounded so furious that, for the first time, Edmund felt himself frightened of his older brother. He cowered against the tree, half expecting Peter to strike him, and being ashamed of the thought.

Peter, for his part, seemed to realise that he had spoken too violent. His next words were hissed. "I can take care of things myself. I don't need my little brother running around causing embarrassment for me. I _certainly_ don't need you to fight my battles for me." He paused. "Mind your own business, Edmund. That's an order."

He spun around and made his way back to the school in great, angry strides. Edmund could only watch, pale, and small, and, suddenly, feeling much younger than his eleven years. As he felt tears pricking the end of his eyes, he realised that, for the first time in a long while, he wanted nothing more than to curl up in his mother's lap and be hugged, petted and soothed into sleep.


	3. Football

CHAPTER THREE

(FOOTBALL)

28th April, 1941

_Dear Susan,_

_Normally I'd start out this letter by asking how my long-suffering sister is getting along at the PRISON they call boarding school, but too much has been going on recently. I apologise if I seem disinterested in your activities. I'll ask about them some other time._

_Susan, there's a problem with Peter, a big problem. You may have noticed that something was the matter over Easter. (Or maybe not, girls are known for their lack of observation skills, ha-ha.) In all seriousness, Su, I'm really worried. 90% of the time Peter is arrogant, bad-tempered, and, though I hate to say it, an ENORMOUS pain to be around – and that's putting it in the kindest way I know how._

_I think – no, I'm SURE – he's finding it difficult to establish exactly who and what he is here. He's a schoolboy again, yet he still feels himself a king. He hasn't found a way to successfully combine these two aspects of his character. He feels himself so much better than everyone else at the moment, me included._

_Susan, you know how much I care for Peter. I want to stand by him. But oh, how difficult he is making it. I suppose this is no more than I deserve for being such a wretched little beast for half a year before Narnia, but…goodness, Susan, I was WORSE than this. I'm surprised the three of you didn't kill me. _

_Have you any advice? I'm having an absolutely rotten time at the moment. I don't know who to turn to. _

_Oh, and Susan – you must not say a WORD to Peter about anything I've told you in this letter. There shall be the most frightful row if you do. And don't say anything to Mum or to Lucy either, I don't want to worry them. Let's keep what I've told you to ourselves._

_Well. That's it for now. I'm sorry this letter hasn't been much fun to read (it's been even worse to write.) Hopefully this whole mess will clear up soon and I will return to being the grudging receptacle of the simplistic twitterings of schoolgirls. _

_Love,_

_Edmund_

* * *

May, 1941

Susan had written back, full of concern and affection. Edmund was grateful for her mothering on this occasion. She _had_ noticed a change in Peter herself, she told him, and had tried to nudge Peter into an explanation, but he'd been no more willing to discuss his affairs than he currently was with Edmund. _I thought you might have better luck_, she wrote, _since you're so close...but it seems as though Peter will not accept help from anyone at the moment._

She told Edmund how proud she was of him (how he missed hearing that from Peter!) and, ultimately, her advice was similar in vein to Mr Hopper's words. Edmund needed to allow Peter to approach him in his own time. It would do no good to force him into a situation for which he was not ready. Edmund should concentrate on his schoolwork and try to have fun, in spite of his worries. Peter would come around. He had to. This was _Peter_ they were talking about.

Edmund felt comforted enough by Susan's letter that he agreed to join in a game of football in the grounds. He was not overly fond of football but the occasional game could be fun and perhaps an hour or so of frolicking was just what the doctor ordered. So he ran madly about with the other boys, shouting and whooping, tripping over his feet, missing goals and passing the ball to players on the opposite team. Yes, he was awful. But he was enjoying himself. After all the tension of the last couple of months, it felt liberating to throw himself fully into boyish antics. In Peter's presence he had to watch what he did and said, lest he incur his brother's wrath – and no matter how careful he was, Peter still found something to pick at. Edmund felt an animalistic wildness surging though his body and his mind, a bacchanalia of frivolity, passion and excitement. Steady, cautious, reliable Edmund had taken a backseat to his more reckless and mischievous side, and oh, it felt good! He fell into a tackle with Dennis Higgins and the two of them tumbled to the ground, bodies rolling and bumping against each other amidst a frenzy of shouting and laughter. What rubbish Peter was talking, telling him he shouldn't act like a child. Edmund was an eleven-year-old boy and he loved it.

When it came to Edmund's turn to boot the ball at the goal, he gave it every ounce of his energy that he had. He knew he would miss, but he didn't care about winning or losing. The joy of letting off his pent-up emotional energy was all he could think about. His foot connected with the ball with the force of twenty men and the children watched as it sailed in a determined arc towards…

The library window.

They all froze as, with a piercing cracking sound, the ball shattered the window. Shards of glass flew in all directions. There were yells from the library, gasps from the boys outside. Some started to run off, afraid of punishment. Edmund stood still, a grimace tugging at his lips, awaiting the advance of either a master or the library monitor.

An older pupil walked swiftly out of the library. Dirty blonde hair, flapping wldly in the wind. Stony face. Edmund's grimace became even stronger. Oh, no. Peter.

Peter halted before what was now a much smaller gaggle of boys. His gaze rested on Edmund for a second but he betrayed nothing. Then he spoke.

"Which one of you is responsible for breaking the window?"

The boys looked at each other. None of them wanted to tell tales. Edmund felt as though he was squeezing into a narrow tube of toothpaste. His whole body felt tight. It had been an accident. They had just been playing. Surely Peter wouldn't…

"Which one of you did this? If I don't get an answer, you're *all* getting reported! I mean it!"

Edmund couldn't let the others get into trouble. Eyes facing the ground, he spoke softly. "It was me, Peter."

"I see." Still Peter's face showed no emotion. He might as well have been looking at a block of metal. He waved at the other boys. "Be off with you."

Some did as he said. Others hesitated, Dennis one of them.

"Did you hear what I said?" Peter shouted. "Clear off! I want to have a talk with my brother…_alone_."

The others hurried away. Dennis started to say, tentatively, "He didn't mean to…" and, seeing the look in Peter's eyes, faltered. With an apologetic look at Edmund, he too, scurried after his friends. The brothers were left alone.

"Well?" Peter said icily.

"I'm sorry," Edmund mumbled. "It was an accident, Peter."

Peter grabbed the younger boy and shook him hard. "You're a king, Edmund. A _king_! You should be exercising caution and consideration with everything you do. Instead, you're acting like a common schoolboy."

"But that's what I _am_!" Edmund burst out. "I'm a boy, Peter, I can't be anything more!"

Peter scowled and gave him a shove. "You may be letting the lessons of Narnia fall by the wayside, but I will do no such thing. Shape up, Ed. If I don't see some improvement, I'll…"

"What?" Edmund pressed, unable to stop a faintly mocking tone creeping into his voice. "Is the High King Peter going to scold his wayward baby brother? Need I expect a spanking?"

Peter smacked him sharply across the face – not an aggressive slap, but enough to cause a sting. Edmund jolted back, stunned. He could not remember the last time Peter had been so physically violent with him.

"I'll have no lip from you," his brother growled. "You mind your tongue, Edmund. Understand me?"

Edmund nodded. Half of him felt Peter deserved some disrespect, the other half felt sorry. He loved and admired his older brother. He didn't want to quarrel. But how much longer could he allow Peter to go on acting the way he was, with nary a complaint? By Aslan, he wasn't a _saint_. How much more could he put up with?

"I'm sorry, Peter," he said at last. "You're my brother. I look up to you. I didn't mean to be rude. It won't happen again."

Peter could tell he was sincere. Something in his expression seemed to soften slightly. He reached out a hand and swept it through Edmund's dark hair.

"Ed…"

"Yes, Peter?"

The softness was gone. His brother drew away.

"Remember what I told you, Ed. Shape up."

The older boy was retreating now, heading back to the school. As if on cue, the grey clouds that had been threatening rain for some time, opened up. The downpour was heavy and persistent. But Edmund did not move. He stayed right where he was, allowing the rain to drench him, to soak through his sweater and shorts, to straggle his hair. How long he remained outside, he knew not. He knew he would be scolded by the school nurse but he cared not one bit. The sky, dour and dark as it was, seemed to be gazing sorrowfully upon him, as though it understood how Edmund felt and was attempting, fruitlessly, to console him. Raindrops pelted him, as if to knock some sense into the little boy, as if to say, _Do something about your brother, King Edmund_. But Edmund did not feel like a king. He was a lost, frightened little boy, and, as the droplets of water clung to his sweater, he felt himself spiritually and emotionally clinging back. The rain, at least, was glad to be with him.

At that moment, the rain was all that Edmund had.


	4. Fisticuffs

CHAPTER FOUR

(FISTICUFFS)

May, 1941

Charles Hopper was fond of the Pevensie brothers. He was one of the masters whose responsibility it was to welcome new boys to the school and give a minor induction. He well-remembered the gloomy September day in 1939 when a blonde thirteen-year-old and his dark-haired nine-year-old brother had been amongst the party of a dozen schoolboys that he showed around the school. Peter had been charming and polite; a touch of nervousness behind his confidence had made him all the more endearing. He had done his best to hold Edmund close to him, slipping an arm around the boy's narrow shoulders and murmuring softly. Mr Hopper had supposed that the older Pevensie was putting on a show of being more confident than he really was in order to reassure the younger boy.

Little Edmund had intrigued him even then. He had not appeared frightened or anxious that first day. On the contrary, his dark eyes, always so expressive, seemed alive with wonder and curiosity. He seemed eager and excited to explore what was, in effect, his new home. They had briefly lost him in the sports hall when the lad decided to investigate the storage room. Suddenly aware of his brother's absence, Peter had looked about ready to have a heart attack. His fear was soon quelled when they heard a rummaging and the sound of a ball falling from a shelf. Edmund was swiftly collected and they resumed their tour.

By December, the mischievous, questioning, curious and quietly intelligent little boy was becoming angry, sullen and surly. Mr Hopper knew this was because Edmund was being bullied. On the occasions that he had actually witnessed the boy being mistreated, he had stepped in and Pevensie junior's tormentors had scattered. However, this was about the limit to what Charlie Hopper was able to do. There was no use taking the matter to the headmaster. The head, well-meaning fellow though he was, liked to bury his head in the sand and deny that any such behaviour was happening in _his_ school. And too many of the other masters (Mr Donohue among them) were of the school of thought that a little bullying was character building. Edmund had begged his teacher to say nothing to Peter and, against his better judgment, Mr Hopper had agreed. And so it went, with Edmund continuing his slide into a petulant and resentful child, forever caustic and cutting, all joy and openness extinguished.

What a changed Edmund Pevensie last September had brought! Mr Hopper had had some hope that the summer holidays might do some good for the boy but he had not expected such a transition as this. Edmund was back to his old self, but with something more. A maturity, a wisdom and a calmness that was almost unseen in children so young. He was still a boy, a young scamp, and maintained his familiar sharp and sarcastic tongue (never used upon the masters, of course) but there was also something _adult_ inside Edmund. Mr Hopper could only wonder as to what had occurred over the summer.

Now, it was Peter whose personality had taken a turn for the worse. Mr Hopper was at a loss to determine the reason. He highly doubted it was bullying, Tall, confident Peter had never been a target. Something else was up…and it was causing his brother pain.

Mr Hopper could see the younger Pevensie quietly crying at the back of the class. He was doing his best to hide it – had propped textbooks up around the table – but every now and then the teacher would hear a muffled sniffle and see a tear leak out of the boy's eyes before he hurriedly bowed his head again. Mr Hopper left him to it until the end of the lesson when he approached Edmund as he was collecting his belongings together.

"Something the matter, Edmund?" he asked sympathetically.

Edmund stared at the floor. "No, sir," he muttered.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir."

"Your last essay was excellent, you know."

"Thank you."

Clearly the boy didn't feel able to confide in him just yet. Mr Hopper decided to let the matter drop. "Well…I'd better not keep you any longer," he said. "Just – Edmund – if you ever feel you need to…get anything off your chest…my office door is always open."

He smiled. He received a tiny one back in return.

* * *

"Edmund?"

Edmund, jumped, startled, at the sound of his brother's voice. He was remaining in bed late, as was his custom on Sundays (getting up in the morning was always a struggle for him) The other boys had gone down to breakfast but Edmund's Sunday habit was to pick himself up something at the tuck-shop in the middle of the morning. It still being only eight-thirty, he had looked forward to another hour of snuggling beneath the sheet and blankets.

Peter entered the dormitory, his hair tousled and untidy. Edmund saw dark rings under his eyes and wondered how much sleep his brother had got last night. Not very much, it seemed.

"How did you know I was still here?" Edmund mumbled groggily.

A small grin tugged on Peter's lips. Edmund's heart leapt. Oh, what a joy to have his brother smiling at him again! "I know you better than anyone, Ed. I hear you're _impossible_ to rouse on a Sunday."

"_You_ look like you should be in bed yourself," Edmund observed dryly. "You do look a mess, Peter, if you don't mind me saying so."

Something crossed Peter's face. Fear? Pain? Edmund couldn't make out what. He propped himself up against his pillows. "To what can I owe this unexpected visit?"

Peter sat down at the foot of his bed. "Listen, Edmund. I'm sorry if I've been a bit short with you lately. I've had a lot to think about."

Edmund waited, wondering if Peter was, at long last, going to spill the beans on what had been bothering him. He wasn't. Peter pressed on, "I need to ask a favour of you, Ed."

_The High King needed his help._ Edmund instantly fell into duty. "Yes, of course. Anything."

Peter smiled. "It's not much. It's just…I've ordered something. From the United States. I'd collect it myself, but it's not going to arrive until June and I'm going to be tied up with exams then. I – I need you to collect it for me – on a certain day – and take it to a certain location."

Edmund blinked. This was rather odd. What could Peter possibly have ordered?

"Would you do that for me, Edmund?" Peter asked.

"You know I will," Edmund replied. "My help is always at hand."

Peter seemed to fully relax for the first time since coming into the room. "You're a brick, Ed. I knew I could rely on you. Thanks." His stomach gave a rather large rumble. "Whoops. I suppose I'd better get something to eat."

"Um, Peter," Edmund said, as his brother started towards the door, "what is the item that you've ordered from America?"

Again, something flashed across Peter's face. "You don't need to know," he said softly. The door closed and Edmund was left by himself in bed, cheered up but puzzled.

* * *

_39, Harvester Road, Bridgford_

_That's the address to which the package needs to be delivered. It should be available for collection from the post office on 15__th__ June. (Heavy day of exams for me.) If you can retrieve the package and deliver it to said address, I'd be very grateful._

_Thanks again,_

_Peter_

Three days had passed since Peter's request on Sunday morning. That evening Edmund had found a note under his pillow and kept going over the contents in his mind. Bridgford was the local town. Harvester Road was part of the residential area. Who did Peter know who lived there? And why was he sending them a package? A package from America, no less? What was going on?

Lost in his thoughts as he strolled across the grounds, Edmund hadn't noticed that was walking by a group of third-form layabouts. The first he knew of anyone's presence was the old schoolboy trick of sticking out a foot. Edmund felt himself tumbling to the ground to laughter and jeers.

He got to his feet, annoyed with himself for being so easily caught out. He made to resume his walking…but the third-formers weren't finished with him yet. Edmund vaguely recognised them as a group of rogues who enjoyed picking on people in their form. They generally didn't bother with younger boys and this was the first time Edmund had had contact with them. The leader, bony-faced and swaggering, gave Edmund a shove in the chest.

"You're Peter Pevensie's brother, aren't you?" he demanded.

The other boys' eyes were on him. This didn't look good. "Yes," Edmund said warily. "What of it?"

He leaned in close. "Your brother's just ticked us off. Isn't that right, boys?"

"Right, Jarrold," chorushed his friends.

"We were only _smoking_," Jarrold continued, giving Edmund another shove. "Not bothering a soul. And then your high-and-mighty _brother_ shows up, all set to report us."

"As well he should," Edmund said. "You know it's against the rules to smoke. You deserve to be reported."

"Oh, _do_ we?" Jarrold hissed. More titters from his friends. "So Edmund Pevensie is a rotten little suck-up just like big brother is, eh?"

Edmund felt his cheeks flush with anger. "You mind what you say about my brother!" he shouted.

The gang was sniggering now, enjoying Edmund's anger and discomfort. Jarrold poked him. "What is the tiny Pevensie going to _do_?" he sneered. "How does the pup intend to defend precious Peter the Prig?"

"I'll thump you if you don't shut up," Edmund said hotly. He knew he shouldn't lose control like this, knew this was only what the boys wanted. _King Edmund the Just_ _would keep his cool more easily._ But…

Jarrold pushed his face right against Edmund's, so their noses were touching. "Listen here, you little runt," he said, his lip curling. "Your brother thinks he's so much _better_ than the rest of us. But he's not. He's nothing more than a smug, self-righteous, sanctimonious little _weasel_. I'd tell your Precious _Peter_ to keep his wits about him because if he doesn't, he may well find that his oh-so-pretty face gets rearranged…OOF!"

Summoning all the strength he could muster, Edmund had drawn back his fist and punched Jarrold hard in the stomach. Jarrold doubled over, momentarily stunned, but not for long. He dove at Edmund and, before he knew was happening, both boys found themselves rolling about on the ground, kicking, biting, scratching and arms flailing.

Almost at once they were surrounded by a gaggle of pupils chanting, "Fight! Fight!" Edmund felt his head smack against the ground but he barely felt any pain. He just felt anger, scalding anger, at the person who had disrespected his brother so.

"EDMUND! Stop! What are you DOING?"

Someone had broken through the spectators and Edmund felt himself being hauled to his feet and away from Jarrold. The fight had barely lasted two minutes. Both boys were scratched and bruised but, other than that, no worse for wear. Edmund shook himself free of the person who had broken up the fight, who, he realised with a heavy feeling of foreboding, was Peter.

Peter glared at Jarrold. "You again? I want you out of my sight. Go on. Go indoors."

"Who are you to order me around?" Jarrold flared.

"I am a fifth former," Peter said, drawing himself up, "and if you don't obey, you'll find yourself in more trouble than you're already in. Go inside. Now."

With a last scowl at the brothers, Jarrold did as he was ordered, his friends following. The other boys, seeing that the fight was well and truly over, also dispersed. Edmund turned to Peter.

"Peter, Jarrold started it. I was just…"

"I don't care who started it." Peter's voice was flat.

"But I just want to…"

"I don't care, Edmund," Peter repeated. His glare was now turned on his brother. "What do you think you were doing, brawling in the grounds like that? Is that behaviour fitting of a king of Narnia, Ed? Because I don't think it is!"

"But he provoked me…"

"Enough excuses!" Peter shouted. "I'm fed up with you, Edmund. I've got so much to do and to find that I've _still_ got to run around after you and keep you out of trouble…how can you be so selfish?"

That stung. "Peter, I…I'm sorry!"

"That's what you keep saying. Hollow words, Edmund."

Edmund was silent. His anger had gone, replaced by stabbing pains rising through his chest and up to his throat. _Why didn't Peter LISTEN? Why wouldn't he UNDERSTAND?_

Peter leaned close and spoke in a low voice. "If you're not careful, Edmund, you'll end up reverting back to what you were before we went to stay with the professor. Is that what you want?"

"NO!" What could he say to his brother? To make him see sense?

"But then again…" Peter hesitated. He started to walk away and continued, over his shoulder, "But then again…maybe you never really changed."

_Maybe you never really changed._

_Maybe you never really changed._

_Maybe you never really changed._

The words reverberated in Edmund's skull like a relentless boomerang. Was this what Peter really thought?

The grounds were full of the sounds of pupils running and laughing but Edmund saw and heard none of it. All he saw was Peter's look of contempt, felt his words slice through his body and filter into his soul. _Maybe you never really changed._ After all he had done, after all the work in Narnia, all the battles, all the times he'd barely escaped with his life…after saving Peter and the girls countless times, after _throwing_ himself into his role as King Edmund the Just, after all the disputes he'd settled, after all he'd done at _home_…it all counted for nothing. To Peter, he was still the same beastly little boy he'd been in the half a year preceding Narnia.

The familiar sensation of a lump forming in his throat. Choking on a sob, Edmund hurried into the nearest building before any other boys could see him cry. Such was his misery, he did not notice Mr Hopper emerge from the shadows of the library, having witnessed the entire affair.


	5. Intoxication

CHAPTER FIVE

(INTOXICATION)

Mid-May, 1941

Edmund, normally a brilliant chess player, could not keep his mind on his game with Dennis Higgins. Miserably, he thought of all the times he had played chess with Peter, in England and Narnia, and had won more often than not. He would have given his right arm for a game of chess with Peter now, some show of normalcy, some indication that his brother (and their relationship) was back to how it had been. Why was Peter so angry with him? Yes, he'd made some mistakes and he certainly wasn't proud that he'd allowed Jarrold to provoke him into a fight, but this was regular schoolboy hijinks. The old Peter would have been supportive and forgiving. What creature was this that was inhabiting his brother?

"Checkmate," Dennis said for the third time that evening. "I say, you _are_ awful tonight, Edmund. I'm a _terrible_ chess player. You've been plodding through our games like a disinterested phantom. What _is_ up?"

Edmund gazed into the green-grey eyes blinking at him behind the glasses, eyes soft with concern. He took in Dennis's thin face, sympathetic frown, the whole of his scrawny body, and felt the need to cling to his friend – to someone, _anything_ – and to be reassured that all would turn out for the best. To Dennis's utter astonishment, the boy flung his arms around him, burrowing his face into his shoulder and squeezing his back. After a few moments of awkward hesitation, Dennis slipped his own arms around Edmund and nervously patted him. He was not used to this show of affection. With eleven-year-old boys it just wasn't the done _thing_.

They remained the way they were for some time – maybe ten minutes – before Edmund slowly pulled away. "Thank you," he said, genuinely grateful to his friend. "I needed that."

"Are you all right, Edmund?"

"Not really," came the reply. "But we all have our cross to bear, I suppose."

Dennis squinted at him. "Is Peter your cross?"

Edmund's face twitched. That was a _Yes_, then.

"He…he hasn't been very nice to you recently." Edmund said nothing. Dennis, fearing that he had offended him, said hurriedly, "I don't mean to insult him or anything. I just…noticed…that he's been quite angry with you. And you don't deserve it."

Edmund sighed. "I do deserve it, Dennis. I'm…I'm a traitor."

"_What_?" Dennis's eyes flew through the ceiling. "What are you talking about, Edmund?"

"I'm just a horrible little kid. I nearly got them all _killed_ because I was so selfish."

Dennis had no idea what his friend meant. "Well, whatever you've done in the past, you're nice now," he said firmly, "and I think you should tell you brother…oh." He broke off as a none other than Peter Pevensie himself entered the common room. "Edmund. Peter's here."

_His brother had come to talk to him?_

Normally, Edmund loved every opportunity to chat with his brother that he had. Now, however, he found himself wondering what _else_ he had done to offend Peter, what scolding he was in for now. He looked over warily as Peter crossed over.

"Edmund. I just wanted to remind you about the job I asked you to do," Peter said, his tone formal.

"Job?" _Oh. The package. _"Yes. I haven't forgotten. But you don't need me to do anything for another month or so yet, do you?"

"I want to make sure you remember," Peter said. "This is very important to me, Ed. _Please_ make sure you bear it in mind."

"Of course. But why is it so important…"

"That's not your business," Peter interrupted. "You just need to know that this means a lot to me. Remember, Ed. Fifteenth of June. Don't let me down."

He left the room. _That was it. He just came to give another command._

"After the way he's been acting, I don't think he has the right to expect _anything_ of you," Dennis said, more crossly than he intended. He was bewildered by the strange smile Edmund gave him in response.

"It's _Peter_, Dennis. I love him."

That he did. More than anyone (perhaps even Peter himself) knew.

* * *

The following evening, Edmund found himself mincing listlessly around the town. It was a Saturday and he'd spent the afternoon with Dennis and a couple of other boys, browsing shops, seeing the latest film at the cinema. The others had headed back to school at five o'clock but Edmund had fancied some time to himself. Boys of his age had return to school by six-thirty, so he still had some time.

His aimless stroll took him to the town park, which was full of children playing sports, families having evening picnics and elderly couples taking leisurely walks. The sun glowed benignly and understandingly above and the sound of birds tweeting so merry and carefree, to Edmund's ears, that he felt coated in a sense of peace. Peace that he had not felt since Christmas time. Taking an available bench, he laid down and closed his eyes, determined to make the most of what time he had…

…His eyes bolted open to the sound of the church clock chiming. One, two, three…four, five…six, _seven_ times. Oh bother! He was supposed to be back at school half an hour ago. He was late and if caught, would no doubt receive a severe ticking off. Depending on which master might punish him, it could even be a caning. Drat, drat, drat!

He jumped up. The park was more deserted now. The families and children had gone, leaving only courting or married couples taking walks. The evening was still warm, but Edmund felt cold when he thought of the row he might get into – and if Peter found out…

_Nothing_ was going right for him lately. _Nothing_.

"So the bonny lad awakens from his slumber!"

Startled, Edmund jerked around to face the speaker behind the voice. A man who looked to be in his forties was leaning by the back of the bench. He was wearing a flat cap and displaying a grin that was free of a front tooth. Although quite warm, he was dressed in an overcoat and rather scruffy trousers. Edmund normally avoided strange adults, but there was something likeable in this man's grin, something mischievous and endearing. So Edmund stayed where he was.

"What's a youngster like you doing out all by himself?" the man asked, still grinning in that funny, lopsided and charming way.

"I go to the boarding school. I came out for the afternoon…I really should be getting back."

"I had a son who looked a little like you," the man said, studying Edmund's face carefully. "He died. Three years ago. Thirteen years old."

"Oh." Edmund didn't know what to say. "How awful. I'm so sorry."

"What's your name, boy?"

"Edmund Pevensie."

"Edmund Pevensie, eh? Well, Edmund Pevensie. I'm Kipper. Least, that's what my friends call me." He chuckled. "You look sad, Edmund Pevensie. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just…it's nothing."

Kipper was still scrutinising him. "Well, Edmund, here's a bit of advice. After my boy died, I experienced the darkest days of my life. I didn't know it was possible to feel so much pain. But something has been helping me through it. And that something can help you out too. Do you know what it is?"

Edmund shook his head.

Kipper laughed and slipped his arm around Edmund's shoulders. "Come with me, Edmund Pevensie. Come with me."

Perhaps it was the fact that this man seemed to like him. Perhaps it was the fact that Edmund felt he needed a friend. Perhaps it was the fact that he was dreading returning to scolding at school. Whatever it was, Edmund could have done little else than follow along with his new acquaintance. It was not wise, it was not rational, but it was what Edmund needed.

* * *

A pub. Kipper had taken him to a pub. Brown lettering spelled out the name, _The Hawk and Sparrow_. Seeing that Kipper intended to take him inside, Edmund halted, uncertain.

"I'm not sure I should go inside," he said nervously. "I'm rather young."

Kipper laughed again. "You've got me to look after you, Edmund. Besides, I know the chap who owns this pub quite well. He's rather…_tolerant_…of a diversity of ages. Understand?"

In they went.

The pub was dingy, dark and smelled of stale cigarettes. Edmund wrinkled up his nose in disgust. It was also raucous, tables crowded with twice the people they seated, all shouting. bellowing and laughing. The laughter was strange. It was merry, yes, but also contained a coarseness. A woman stumbled past Edmund, grabbed at him, and slid to the floor, to guffaws all around. Edmund stared. "Should-shouldn't we help her?" he asked Kipper.

"It's all right, lad. She always gets into a mess. Leave her where she is."

Edmund found himself being propelled to a table where there sat five other men, dressed similarly to Kipper. Their conversation broke as they saw them approaching and they regarded Edmund with a mixture of amusement and condescension.

"What's this you've brought with you, then, Kipper?" asked one of them. "Past his bedtime, isn't it?"

"The boy's a good-un," Kipper told him. He called across to the dumpy fellow behind the bar. "Horace. Get this lad a beer. I'm paying for it."

_A beer?_

"Er…Kipper," Edmund said slowly, "isn't a beer…alcoholic?"

The men around the table collapsed into laughter. "A right little innocent we have here!" "Isn't a beer alcoholic…of all the stupid questions!"

"All right, all right." Kipper held up a hand. "Is that any way to welcome a friend of mine? Take a seat, Edmund."

"I don't think I should have a beer," Edmund said quietly. "Is there any lemonade?"

"Relax, lad." Kipper ruffled his hair. "This will help you feel better. It's helped _me_ a lot since my boy died, I can tell you."

The beer came. The men watched him expectantly.

"Go on," leered one of them. "It's not poisonous."

Shaking his head, Edmund raised the glass to his lips and took a gulp.

He gagged. Spat it out. Never had he tasted such a foul beverage. It was like filling his mouth with stale, salty sweat.

For some reason, this caused the men even more mirth. Kipper clapped him on the back. "Never mind," he said. "Horace. A lemonade for the lad, please. But add a…little something extra. You know what I'm talking about."

Edmund didn't know, but he didn't care. He was quite thirsty and a nice cold lemonade would hit the spot nicely.

The lemonade came and with it, a strange taste. A sharp, bitter taste…not of lemon, but of something else. Edmund could not tell what, it was an utterly unknown flavour. He was not sure he entirely liked it, but it was a lot better than the horrid beer. He took a few swallows.

Kipper was watching him. "Do you like it?"

"It's all right," Edmund muttered. It was not what he was used to, but he didn't want to seem ungrateful.

Kipper seemed to understand. "It'll get better the more you have."

"I don't have much money…"

"Not to worry, Edmund." Again, that same jaunty smile. "Leave the financial transactions to me."

So Edmund drank.

* * *

By eight-thirty he had just started his third lemonade and no longer found the strange taste quite so disagreeable. In fact, he mused giddily, it was actually rather nice. He also found that he no longer cared about being in town so late into the evening. A telling-off? Fine. Detention. Who cared? A caning. He could take a caning. He'd suffered much more as king in Narnia.

The pub had taken on an entirely more pleasant veneer as well. The noise and cigarettes no longer bothered Edmund. The lady who had grabbed at his arm earlier was still lying where they had left her, but now Edmund found this funny. How silly she looked, crumpled in a heap, dress flowing up to her waist. What funny, happy places pubs were. He really should go to them more often. Why had no one seen fit to take him before?

He made his way to the toilet, the grin on his face as large as Russia.

* * *

Nine-thirty. His fifth lemonade. Or was it his sixth? _Whooooo…..caaarrred_. Edmund slumped in his chair, mouth open, tongue hanging out like a panting dog. What a fine time. He hadn't laughed like this in a long while. He didn't understand half the conversation the men were having, but that mattered not one jot. He was surrounded by friends. How happy he was. How delightfully, clumsily, dizzily happy. Kipper was right. Pubs _did_ help. Edmund found he hardly cared about Peter right now. _Let Peter act like an….iiiiiddiooot. He was a fool. A big, blonde foooooool. He, Edmund, was int…intellig….intelligenigible. No that's not right. Intel…_

Edmund stood up. For some reason this was difficult. He found he needed to grip the table in order to steady himself. Why was the room swaying?

"I'd like to…._maaaaaaaaaake_….an announ….ann….announce…an ammouncement," he slurred.

More smiles. More laughter. What good friends he had!

"I THINK…YOU ARE ALLLLLLLLLLL…..ALLLLLLLLL….THE MOST WONDERFILFULMENTING….PEEEEOOOOPLE….IN THE WOOORRLD."

Wonderfilfulmenting? What was that? No matter. He meant every word. _Assslan, thank you, Assssssssslan, for sending me Kipper._

Happy. Happy. Happy. Peter…who was Peter? No one important. Who cared about Peter? Peter didn't care about _him_. Stupid Peter. Stupid, stupid, stupid Peter. Forget him.

"Let's have a singsong!" one of his new friends decided.

So Edmund sang. There were some strange words in this song, some of them four-lettered, some longer. He wasn't quite sure what he was singing. But it felt right. It felt _good_. What was this magic lemonade he'd been drinking? He needed the recipe. What a super night. He never wanted it to end…

* * *

Ten o'clock. Edmund was vaguely aware of one of his new friends – Kipper? Someone else? – gently steering him to the door. "Fun's over, lad." Over? The door shut. He was outside. He fell down. He climbed back up. He leaned against the door. This was interesting. Everything was spinning. He felt as though he was on a merry-go-round. What lovely spinning.

Oh, well. Back to school now. Not far.

Walking. Walking wasn't working. Kept falling over. Didn't hurt. But Edmund decided he wanted to crawl. Crawl to school, how amusing! He hadn't crawled since he was a small child. Well, he was a small child now, of course. _EVERYONE is a SMALL CHILD. THERE IS NOOOOOOOOO SUCH THINNNNG AS AN AAAAAAADULT._

His thoughts were very slow. They usually scampered about like spooked hares. How pleasant to have the mind of a sloth. How deliciously delirious he felt.

School. Grounds. What time was it now? Didn't matter. Could he get inside? Wouldn't the doors be locked. No problem? He would just curl up here on the grass and go to sleep. The stars were winking at him, encouraging him to do just that. He would stay with the stars. _His_ stars. How…

"Edmund! EDMUND!"

A pair of arms dragged him to his feet. Edmund fell against the body of his captor. Clutching his back, he fuzzily made out the features of Mr Hopper.

"Hop," he said, dribbling as he did so. "Hop. It's the Hop. _Miiiiiiiister_ Hopper. How do you _do_?"

"Oh, good Lord," he heard.

His teacher sounded worried. He'd have to reassure him.

"Hop…I'm allllll right. I made some new friends, Hop." He giggled. He couldn't stop giggling.

"All right, Edmund. Let's get you inside. I'll let the head know you're back. Peter's been frantic."

_Peter?_

He was inside. His feet had hardly touched the floor. Mr Hopper had practically carried him. Where was he? Oh. Mr Hopper's office. Mr Hopper's cosy office. Who was that furious-looking person in front of him? Its hands were balled into fists, they looked ready to strike. Why did people waste so much time being _angry_ when they could be _happy_ instead?

"I'll alert the headmaster," he heard Mr Hopper say in a muffled voice. "I know you're angry, Peter…but it's not his fault. He met some men."

Mr Hopper left. That furious figure was still there, though.

"_How…DARE_… you!"

That was his brother's voice. He sounded as furious as he looked.

Peter's voice was shaking with rage. "Do you have any idea how much TROUBLE you've caused, you little IDIOT? No one knew where you WERE, the POLICE have been called! What are you trying to do?"

"I had fuuuuun, Peter."

Peter smacked him hard across his head. "Oh, you had _fun_, did you? Look at yourself! Drunk! DRUNK! What do you think Mum would say if she could see you? What do you think she's going to say when she FINDS OUT? Do you have any concern for ANY of us, you selfish little brat?"

Of course he did. He'd been so happy – he wanted Peter to be happy too.

"_Nothing_ I say sinks in to you!" Peter raged. "DON'T YOU STAND THERE SMIRKING AT ME LIKE THAT!" Edmund's smile slipped. Peter. Nasty Peter. Interfering with his happiness. Why couldn't he leave him be?

"Do you have _anything_ to say for yourself?" his brother demanded. "_Anything_? Do you care _nothing_ for anyone else? You – you're a _monster_! _Say_ something! Explain yourself!"

He wasn't a monster. Peter was the monster. Peter had been a monster for a long time.

Edmund opened his mouth. He _was_ going to say something. This seemed like the perfect time to use one of those new words he had learned in the pub.

"Fuck off, Peter," he said.

And Edmund the Just was promptly sick all over the High King's shoes.


	6. Rejection

CHAPTER SIX

(REJECTION)

Mid-May, 1941

Edmund had been in plenty of sticky situations before. He'd come close to death more times than he'd had hot dinners. Yet the terror of all of his previous misadventures paled in comparison with the trepidation he felt on the Monday after his display of drunkenness.

He had been laid up in bed all Sunday, nursing the most horrific headache. Dennis, who seemed to know a thing or two about drinking, informed him that this was called a "hangover." Edmund felt dry, dehydrated, tired out and utterly wretched. Dennis's company was some small comfort, but he knew he would have to face the headmaster on Monday morning. But even more, he dreaded his next meeting with Peter. His brother was incensed.

Edmund knew that Peter was right to be angry. He knew he should come back to the school the moment he realised he was late, knew he should never have allowed Kipper to take him to a pub, no less buy him drinks. He had made a mistake, a _big_ mistake, and he sincerely regretted it. _But_, said something inside of him, _Peter is partly to blame too. I've been out of my wits because of him. If my judgement has floundered, am I really completely at fault?_

His head throbbed. His throat felt like sand. And, if he was honest with himself, the thought of facing Peter tomorrow utterly petrified him. His elder brother kept telling him he wasn't acting like a king. Maybe that was fitting, for never had Edmund felt less like a monarch.

_Who am I? King Edmund the Just or Edmund Pevensie, schoolboy?_

Monday morning dawned, bright and annoyingly cheery. In the headmaster's office, Edmund accepted his punishment with all the dignity of his Narnian station. Strangely, he felt disengaged from the whole affair, as though he were having an out-of-body experience. The headmaster's words floated past him, barely registering. _Brought shame on the family…brought shame upon your school…disgraceful behaviour. Never in all my years have I seen such a thing…you are better than this, Pevensie…if it were not for your excellent record your punishment would be much harsher._

Caning. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Eight times in total. Edmund felt numb. He felt himself an observer rather than an active participant. There were two Edmunds. One, the little boy being belted. The second, watching silently. Unfeelingly.

Edmund was informed that for the next month, he would only be allowed to go into town in the presence of a master. And, as Edmund stumbled thankfully out of the room, his backside finally starting to burn, the headmaster added that Peter had demanded that Edmund report to him at the end of the day. Four-thirty p.m. In the fifth form dormitory.

Edmund snapped back into his body. What judgement did his brother have in store for him? The boy felt like curling into a ball and wailing. How could he have sunk so low in Peter's estimation? Time was when the elder Pevensie had thought more of him than anybody. What had _happened_ to his brother? What was happening still? And how could Edmund put a stop to it?

Nausea rose through him like a tidal wave. Dashing to the nearest lavatories, Edmund vomited for the second time in three days. Weakly, he rinsed away the lumpy mess and tried to quell the panic which he felt sweeping over his body.

"Pull yourself together, Edmund," his hissed fiercely. "You're a King!"

But the memories this invited of he and his siblings – especially he and Peter – happy and content in Narnia, was too much for the schoolboy. His breathing became rapid, intense and he felt his knees buckle. He slid to the floor, hyperventilating. Panic was pounding his chest. By Aslan, he felt so tight it was _painful_. Dizziness crept in on the action and Edmund briefly wondered if he was going to pass out.

The door clanged open. Footsteps. Then the sound of a voice, a friendly voice.

"Edmund? Are you all right? Edmund!"

Dennis. Edmund looked up, relieved. "Dennis, I…I don't feel well," he gasped. "I think I need to go back to bed."

He did not need to speak further. Dennis hooked him under one arm and, holding him firmly for one so slight, walked him slowly and carefully back to the dormitory, where he proceeded to settle his friend into bed with a glass of water. Gabbling speedily, he remained with Edmund until the bell rang for the beginning of lessons. Then, Edmund was left alone with his thoughts. Thoughts dominated by the sinister spectre of Peter.

* * *

Edmund made his way to Peter's dormitory with his heart in his boots. A stiff curtain of dread had inflated itself in his stomach and chest, making his breathing short and tight. Each step felt like a stride towards an abyss. Several times he needed to pause and collect himself. Did he want to show Peter what a pathetic weakling he really was?

When he arrived, Peter faced him in stony silence for what seemed an eternity. Edmund didn't dare to break the silence. Peter's eyes were so cold they almost seemed lifeless. It was best to stay quiet. At least then, he could not say anything wrong.

At last, Peter spoke. "I'm ashamed of you," he said, in a voice devoid of emotion.

Edmund hung his head. Peter's disappointment was worse than a thousand canings. "I'm sorry, Peter."

"Saying sorry doesn't do the job any more, does it, Edmund?"

That flat voice again. He would rather Peter have shouted.

"If I could just explain…"

"It's too late for explanations."

His brother sounded tired. Exhausted in fact. Guilt flared in Edmund's stomach. Had he initiated such anger in his brother that he had been unable to sleep?

"I'm trying to do what you said, Peter. I'm trying to act like a king."

He sounded pathetic. Whiny. No wonder Peter thought so little of him. Jarrold was right. He was a runt. A snivelling feeble little runt, not worthy of Aslan, not worthy of Narnia, not worthy of his sisters, and _certainly_ not worthy of his brother.

"You're not trying hard enough, Edmund."

_King_ Edmund. What a joke. What a cruel joke.

Peter waved his hand. "That's all. You're dismissed."

Once outside, Edmund leaned against the door, taking deep, shuddering breaths. _Oh, Aslan. That was horrid._ He heard the creaking of springs as his brother sank into his bed. He had to fight an urge to run inside, jump into bed with his brother and hug him with all his strength. All Edmund wanted was for his brother to take him into his arms, rock him gently and caress him. As long as Peter would do that, no matter what else happened, all would be right with the world.

Kneeling by the door, Edmund whispered a heartfelt pledge. "Peter, my brother, I know not how you feel about me now. But I give you my promise, my solemn oath, that I love you with all my heart and I always will."

* * *

Thursday evening. Edmund had not seen Peter since Monday but when he caught sight of his brother in the library – the only pupil still there – he had to approach him. At this point, Edmund didn't care if his brother was receptive or not. He just wanted to see if his High King was all right.

He opened the door quietly and stood by a bookstand so he could watch Peter without the other boy noticing. To his astonishment, he saw that his brother was crying. Textbooks and papers had been shoved to one side and Peter's head was resting on the table, his shoulders shaking, frightened sobs punching the gloomy air like a giant black fist.

Edmund edged closer. As he did so, he could make out some of what Peter was saying.

"Not working…not working. I shouldn't _be_ here. I don't _belong_ in this world any more."

Edmund almost choked. What did his brother mean?

"Work…total loss. Going to fail…going to fail my English and Maths exams…going to fail _everything_."

"_He's falling behind a bit in his schoolwork too."_ That's what Mr Hopper had said. _Oh, Peter, how far have you fallen behind?_

Edmund did not feel brave enough to let Peter realise that he had seen him crying. But he was unwilling to leave his brother either. So he stood quietly in the shadows, until Peter had sobbed himself into sleep.

Had Peter been awake, he might have felt the smaller boy pad softly across to the table, take his head in his hands and lean over to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. He might have heard Edmund vow to get Peter through his exams…any way he knew how.

* * *

Friday night. Eleven-thirty. Edmund stole out of the dormitory, taking care to avoid the door creaking, and tiptoed downstairs as lightly as he could. He was on his way to the cupboard where the exam papers were stored.

Edmund had deliberately caused a small explosion in his science lesson that day and, in the commotion that had followed, had slipped a set of keys from the science master's desk. Each master had a key to the exam cupboard.

Edmund knew he was breaking one of the most important rules in the school, but he cared not. All that mattered was helping his older brother. If Peter had had so much on his mind that he was failing in his schoolwork, then it was Edmund's duty to help him succeed.

_Even through cheating?_ asked the voice in his head.

"Yes, even through cheating," Edmund whispered back. "Now be quiet and let me think."

The cupboard was kept in a small room by the school reception area. Edmund switched the light on. It was safe to do so. Everyone was in bed. The masters' sleeping quarters were on the opposite side of the school. He would unlock the cupboard, find the fifth form Maths and English exam papers, and be away in no time. Then he would find some way of delivering them to Peter. Once Peter knew what the questions were to be, he could easily prepare for them.

Edmund had to try several keys before he selected the one which unlocked the cupboard. The fifth key worked and, with a satisfying click, the door swung open. Now, which of these stacks of papers were the fifth formers' Maths and English exams? Ah…he snatched at a bundle. This looked right…

"EDMUND!"

Edmund dropped the sheaf of papers and turned, with a shock, to see his brother standing behind him.

"_Edmund_," repeated Peter in a whisper.

Before Edmund could stammer an explanation, before he could ask Peter what he in his own right was doing roaming the school so late at night, before he could even set his brain into gear and think anything at all, Peter had picked up the Maths exam paper. With a further feeling of horror, Edmund realised that it wasn't the fifth form paper at all. It was the paper for _his_ form. Oh no. Oh, _no._ Peter…

"So this is what you have fallen to," Peter whispered. "A cheat. A common cheat."

Edmund could only shake his head. "No, Peter, no. You've got the wrong idea."

"Oh, have I?" Peter snarled and Edmund recoiled at the disgust dripping from his voice. "I think we _both_ know what's going on here, Edmund, only one of us is too dishonest and cowardly to admit it."

Tears started falling from Edmund's eyes. No. No. "Peter, please! Let me explain!"

"As King of Narnia, you swore to uphold honour in whatever path you tread," Peter recited, distaste making every word sour.

"And I meant it, Peter! _Please_ listen! Don't hate me, Peter, please, please!"

"You have failed Aslan. You have failed Narnia. You've failed the girls. And you have failed _me_."

No. No. No. No. Aslan, no. This wasn't happening.

Edmund ran at Peter, threw his arms around him and howled into his chest. "Peter, Peter, I love you. Don't say these things to me. Don't…"

Peter pushed him away with such force that Edmund's body smacked hard against the cupboard. The contempt on Peter's face was too much to bear. Was his brother so fed up and disgusted that he didn't even want to _touch_ him? _Aslan, no._

"Peter…listen to me. Please. I'm your _brother…_"

Peter shook his head, a mirthless smile sullying his face. "No. As far as I'm concerned…at this moment in time, I don't _have_ a brother."

_I don't have a brother_. That was it. Peter had rejected him. Edmund had lost his brother.

"NO!" Edmund screamed. "Peter, NO!"

But his brother was already vanishing through the doorway. His soul shrieked at him to run after Peter, to cling to him for dear life, to crush him in his arms, to stick to him like glue, to _make_ him understand that all was not as it seemed…but something inside him gave up.

Instead, the young King turned and slammed his head forcefully against the wall. Consumed with pain, with loathing, tears spilling down his face like hot lava, this was all that he could think to do. He slammed his head against the wall again. A third time. A fourth time, fifth time, sixth time. He did not stop until he felt the thick trail of blood slither across his forehead.

Edmund collapsed into a wailing, retching heap, drops of blood intermingling with his tears. He huddled against the cupboard like a broken rag doll. It would be some hours before the boy felt able to stand and retreat, utterly defeated, back to his dormitory.


	7. Exorcism

CHAPTER SEVEN

(EXORCISM)

Late May, 1941

Edmund had not eaten for five days.

He had not left his bed either. Dennis and the other boys who shared the dormitory had awoken on Saturday morning to their schoolmate sobbing softly into his pillow. It was now Wednesday afternoon and the boy had not moved in all that time. He had refused any and all food offered to him (_since when did Edmund turn down a meal?_ Dennis wondered miserably) and had alternated between crying quietly or gazing dully at the ceiling. The nurses were unable to do anything. The other boys were unable to do anything. Edmund had hit rock bottom.

Dennis spent all the time he could with him, chattering gaily about the lessons and sports, about the latest prank that had sent Mr Donohue into a rage. He may as well have been addressing the bed itself for all that it seemed to register. But he pressed on, hopeful that in some way, he was being a help to his friend.

Edmund, for his part, went through spells of only vaguely being aware of the other boy's presence as he submitted to the turmoil in his soul. His older brother meant more to him than anyone else in the world. He loved his sisters and parents of course, loved them so much it made his heart ache, but Peter…Peter surpassed even that. He had admired and looked up to his big brother since he had developed the capacity for thought. Even in the days when he had been troublesome, he had still respected Peter enormously (though he hadn't shown it) and, secretly, all he had really wanted was an embrace from his older brother. Of course, the more petulantly and sulkily he had acted, the more Peter had become impatient and hostile. But through it all, he had still genuinely loved Peter, and when he had returned from the White Witch's clutches, Peter's forgiveness had meant more to him than anyone else's. If Peter had not forgiven him, he really thought he would have died.

Images of happy memories buzzed in his mind, memories of he and Peter frolicking as small children, pictures of Peter looking after him the many times he had ended up with a bruising or a scraping, or the time he had fallen from a tree and broken his arm…their days in Narnia, fighting side by side, coming to one another's aid, supporting each other no matter what…then these images faded and were replaced by the sickening recollections of recent events. Peter's lips twisting into a scowl…Peter shouting…Peter telling him he no longer had a brother.

Edmund quivered into his blankets, wishing with all fervency that the Witch just had done what was best and killed him where he stood.

* * *

"Edmund?"

The boy was roused from a fitful sleep by the voice of his favourite master. Mr Hopper stood by his bed, his face drawn with anxiety, eyes heavy with concern.

"Edmund, my dear." Mr Hopper sank onto his bed with a sigh. "Let's have a talk, shall we?"

Edmund, too weak to protest anyway, nodded.

"Edmund, it's been five days since you last had a meal. Do you want to starve yourself to death?"

"Wouldn't matter if I did," mumbled Edmund.

"You're being silly," Mr Hopper said, more sharply than he'd intended. He softened and slid his hand through the boy's hair. "Your friends would be upset. _I _would be upset. Your family would be grief-stricken. You know you don't want that."

Edmund shrugged.

"We haven't notified your mother yet," Mr Hopper continued, "but if this goes on, we're going to have to."

This, at least, got a reaction. The boy snatched at his arm. "No! Don't! They'll…they'll be so worried…"

"Then eat, Edmund. Please. You don't have to come to lessons yet if you don't want to. But please, lad, eat something, even if it's only bread."

Edmund nodded.

"You promise me this, Edmund? Dennis will bring you a little supper tonight – you give me your word you will eat at least some of it?"

"Yes," Edmund croaked. "I give you my word."

For a few minutes they were silent, Mr Hopper stroking his head gently. "Shall I fetch your brother?" he asked at last.

Edmund jerked forward, panic etched into his face. "No, sir! Please! I…" He fell weakly back against the pillow. "Please…I can't see Peter right now…it hurts too much."

"Very well, lad. But in exchange for us keeping this quiet, there needs to be _some_ effort at improvement from you. Can you manage that?"

"Yes, sir. If it means my mother and sisters don't have to hear of anything…I'll do whatever you ask."

"Edmund. Edmund, Edmund." The master cradled his head and then pulled the boy towards him for a quick hug, wincing at how bony he felt. "Edmund. Exorcise yourself."

Edmund misunderstood. "I'm a bit too fragile to run about at the moment," he wheezed.

"No, lad. Not _exercise_. EXORCISE yourself. Cast out your demons."

"How, sir?"

"That, Edmund, is something you will have to learn by yourself."

And Mr Hopper left, satisfied that he had at least accomplished _something_.

* * *

He _had_ accomplished something. True to his word, Edmund did indeed eat a little bread and honey that night, with increased servings each day. It was still a full week before the boy felt able to return to lessons, but he was back on the right path.

_Exorcise yourself._

_Cast out your demons._

On the fourth evening after his conversation with Mr Hopper, Edmund went outside and stood by the waterfall in the school grounds. The sky had taken on a warm and inviting golden hue and Edmund enjoyed the merry tinkling of the water, which reminded him of Lucy's laughter. For the first time in weeks, he felt loved and accepted.

"Aslan," he whispered, "dear Aslan, I give my heart to you. I entrust my soul to your keeping. Aslan, if it is your will, please allow me to exorcise myself. Please cast out my demons."

He closed his eyes as the breeze floated around him, floated _into_ him, filtered itself into every organ, every limb, every little nook and cranny of his body. And suddenly, suddenly, _he_ was floating out of his body, a perfect spiritual replica of his head, shoulders, chest, arms and legs emerging from its physical container and soaring into the sky. He felt himself an eagle, shooting upwards as though fired from a cannon, bursting into the golden warmth of the sky like an exploding rainbow.

He drifted lazily through the air, feeling this golden warmth surge into his body like an army, a benign army, a beneficent army, cleansing him of all doubt, all fear and replacing it instead with love. What was different about this love was that, for the first time, it was not love for others he was feeling, but love for…_himself_. Edmund felt his chest swell like a balloon as he realised that he had never loved himself before now, not truly, not really. Something inside himself had always held back, had nagged and reminded him of his past as a traitor, had warned him to be careful about lapsing into love for his own self. _You are King Edmund the Just but you are also Edmund Pevensie, and didn't Edmund Pevensie betray his brother and sisters to the White Witch? All for a few pieces of Turkish Delight?_ His betrayal, it seemed, had haunted him long after it had all been over.

_You're King Edmund the Just_, the voice in his head told him, _but you've forgotten along the way that it's not simply about being just to other PEOPLE, Edmund. It's also about being just to YOURSELF._

Edmund felt his head turn inside out from sheer joy. A second later he had reintegrated with his physical body and was standing by the waterfall once more, still filled with the genial sensations of the sunset. And, though he was most certainly alone, and though he questioned himself later, he could have sworn that behind him, he heard a hearty laugh.


	8. Anger

CHAPTER EIGHT

(ANGER)

June, 1941

June dawned with neither Pevensie brother speaking to the other.

Of course, Edmund was far from happy with the situation. But since his strange out-of-body experience and the casting out of his demons, he felt himself imbued with a greater sense of acceptance and tranquillity than he had felt since the beginning of the year. He was also mightily fed up with Peter now and was not about to go chasing after his older brother, pleading for love and friendship, if the other boy did not wish to offer it.

He could be patient. He could wait. If Peter approached him, Edmund would welcome him with open arms. Until then…

"You're being entirely more sensible about this," Dennis told him one afternoon when they were studying in the library together. "You've been rather a doormat these past four months, Edmund. Peter this, Peter that. If he were my elder brother I'd have given him a jolly good smack by now."

"And find yourself knocked flat out in return," Edmund replied with a low chuckle. "You and I both know you can't hold yourself in a fight, Dennis."

"Well," Dennis spluttered, "I get marks for trying, at least."

Edmund surprised the other boy by giving him a swift hug. "You've been a good friend to me, Dennis. Thank you."

"Well," said his friend, flustered but pleased, "you've always been a good friend to me. Even when you were going through your difficult stage, you were still nice to me…most of the time, anyway."

Edmund and Dennis had always been fond of one another. Both had a penchant for English and History, both had a solid knowledge of Biblical scripture, both were befuddled by Maths, and both were frightful when it came to football. Edmund had first come to the bullies' attention when he chose to come to his friend's defence. This had resulted in making _him_ a target as well, yet Edmund had never regretted his decision and he and Dennis had forged a firm alliance which had held through. With Peter so adrift, Edmund was realising just _how_ thankful he was for Dennis's presence.

The two boys left the library an hour later, chattering happily, and almost walked straight into Peter who, it seemed, had been waiting just by the entrance. As if on cue, the smiles vanished from their faces. Edmund struggled to suppress a wave of anxiety. _What now?_

Peter was looking meaningfully at him. Dennis gazed from one boy to the other, frowning, uncertain. Edmund wondered if he dared hope whether Peter had come to try to make things up.

"Maybe I'd better go…" Dennis started.

"I think that would be best." Peter's voice. Cold and flat. He didn't _sound_ like he'd come to make up.

When the brothers were alone, Edmund said, "Well?" He was a little taken aback by how harsh he himself sounded, but, then, could Peter expect any other reception? After how he'd been behaving?

"I came to remind you of your duty," Peter said. Still no emotion in his voice.

"_What_ duty?" Edmund growled. He was running out of patience. If Peter didn't elect to be friendly, there was no reason for him to stay and listen to anything his brother said.

Peter sniffed, a haughty, condescending snuffle which made Edmund want to strike him. "I see you've forgotten. I expected no less. Should have entrusted it to someone more reliable."

Edmund clenched his fists. "Maybe you should have. Either spit out what you want me to do or disappear. I'm not going to put up with your foul moods any longer."

"The package," snapped Peter. "It's the eleventh of June today. Four more days."

_Oh. The note. The package he was supposed to deliver to…what was the address? 39 Harvester Road._

"I remember," Edmund said coldly. "Sure you still want me to do it, seeing as I'm so _unreliable_?"

Peter glowered. "If I'd known what your behaviour was going to descend into, I'd never have asked it of you. But it's too late to find anyone else now." He smiled, but there was no warmth in his lips. "You should thank me, Edmund. I'm giving you the chance to ever so slightly redeem yourself."

It was all Edmund could do not to hit him. Had he not spent twenty plus years in Narnia doing just that? He had long ago redeemed himself in the eyes of Susan, Lucy, Aslan, all of Narnia…and, he had thought, Peter too. If his brother would stop being pig-headed enough to just _listen_...to allow Edmund to explain that he wasn't a cheat, that his drunkenness had been childish folly mixed with hurt feelings and a sense of abandonment…

Sarcasm spilled through his gritted teeth. "Your order is noted, High King. But this time it's not Edmund the Just who needs redemption, is it?"

He swung one hundred and eighty degrees and followed Dennis.

* * *

15th June was a Saturday. Fortuitously, Edmund's punishment had ended the day before, so he could venture into Bridgford free of a master's presence. He wandered lazily into town after lunch (he had hardly been going to make Peter's errand priority number one that day.) He arrived at the post office just ten minutes before it was due to close. The woman who served him seemed put out that, rather than catching an early break as she had hoped, she now had another customer to whom she must attend. She received Edmund's request for the package with a scowl and took far longer than she needed to in retrieving it. When Edmund showed her his library card as evidence that he was indeed related to Peter Pevensie, she took great pleasure in scrutinising it with suspicion. Finally, she tossed the package into his arms and told him to leave.

"Have a good afternoon," Edmund chirped back, "and do try to get out on the right side of bed tomorrow, won't you?" He ducked outside before she could throw something at him. He knew he shouldn't be rude to grown-ups, but that lady had been _asking_ for it.

Safely outside, he had time to carefully finger the item he'd been given. It appeared to be a box of some kind, carefully encased in coarse brown packaging and tied at the ends with string. None the wiser to what could possibly be inside, Edmund fought off an urge to tear off the wrapping and see for himself. _Now. 39 Harvester Road_.

The quickest way to reach Harvester Road was to cross through the park in which he had met Kipper. Edmund's thoughts turned fondly to the man as he strolled across the green. Alcoholic and irresponsible though he was, Kipper had genuinely liked him and been kind. He could hardly blamed for, in a moment of weakness, agreeing to go off with a strange man…a strange man who had acted with more consideration that his brother had for quite some time. He hadn't _meant_ to get drunk…he hadn't even realised that what he'd been drinking _had_ been alcohol…it seemed that Peter was determined to be believe the worst of him at the moment.

Edmund felt anger rising in his chest again. He might very well miss Harvester Road if he let his feelings overtake him, so he took to a bench while he waited for his anger to die down. But it wasn't going to die willingly. The anger which had been simmering in his depths since his out-of-body experience had just broken through the dam.

A fire seemed to have been lit inside him. A discharge of raw rage spewed in front of his eyes, forming cloudy shapes of the unpleasant scenes that had plagued him. Edmund watched, jaw clenched, as the shapes folded into images of Peter and himself. Peter, scolding him purely for being concerned enough to speak to Mr Hopper. Peter, ticking him off for the football accident. Peter telling him "Maybe you never really changed."

Edmund drunk. Edmund vomiting at Peter's feet. _At this moment in time, I don't have a brother._ Edmund screaming and sobbing, smashing his head furiously against the wall until he was bloodied, ragged and tear-streaked. _Peter_. Peter had caused all this, the swine.

Edmund realised he was more than merely angry. He was utterly _furious_ with his brother, as furious and hurt as he had been when the children had first gone to stay with Professor Kirke. How _dare_ Peter treat him so, as though he were no more than a servant, something to be bossed and admonished, a mere commodity to be discarded whenever Peter felt like it...and, after all that, to expect Edmund to perform a _favour_ for him! The boy was cracked.

Edmund snatched at the package with shaking hands. Well, if Peter thought he hadn't really changed since his ordeal with the White Witch, maybe he should just confirm that belief. Couldn't have his dear brother operating under a delusion, could he? _This is very important to me, Ed. Don't let me down._

_Well_, Edmund thought savagely, jumping to his feet, _well, I WILL let Peter down, and I shall enjoy doing so. I'll take his rotten package and hurl it into the river. Edmund betrays his brother once more. He deserves it, the pig._

His mind consumed with crimson red mist, he set out to the river, only a five-minute walk. At certain intervals he thought he heard the sound of faint footsteps behind him but he was too angry to look or care. _Peter. Peter. Rotten Peter._

Edmund stood at the water's edge, trying to bite down the bile collecting in his throat. _Come on. Just get it over and done with and go back to school_.

He raised his arm, the package dangling enticingly over the water. _Go on. Throw it in._

He stretched his arm back, ready to fling the package with all his might.

_Go on_…

And he lowered his arm. Let the package fall to the ground by his side.

He couldn't. No matter how angry he was with his brother, he could not betray him again. Edmund had sworn undying loyalty to Peter, and he would keep it. Through all of his anger, Edmund still loved Peter, and knew he would never _stop_ loving him. Never again could he betray someone he cared so much about. After all, had Aslan not appointed him King Edmund the Just of Narnia? Had Aslan not placed his faith in the boy traitor and trusted him to rule wisely and fairly, to protect his sisters, to stand by and defend his brother, to remain true to Narnia and all that it stood for?

Aslan's faith in him, Edmund realised, was well placed. He was a traitor no more. Had he _ever_ truly been one in the first place?

_It's also about being just to YOURSELF_.

"Was I not," he whispered to himself, "a young, scared, confused little boy, bewitched by dark magic? A traitor in deed, yes, but in heart? No. No, I don't think I was."

He felt as though his crown of old had settled onto his head. In that moment, he felt himself fully King Edmund the Just. The Just King was fair in all his dealings and, regardless of his brother's actions of late, the delivery of this package was important to Peter, and his brother deserved to have his request fulfilled.

Without a second's hesitation, Edmund picked up the package, spun on his heels and set off to 39 Harvester Road, where he was all going anyway, which, even throughout his detour to the river, had always been his destination.

Yes, he mused, he was King Edmund the Just. But he wasn't Edmund the _Perfect_. And when this package was safely delivered, it was high time for a proper confrontation with his brother.


	9. Confrontation

CHAPTER NINE

(CONFRONTATION)

The package had been accepted by a thin, wheezy gentleman who looked to be in his late forties. Normally, Edmund's curiosity would have been roused and he would have stayed to talk and find out more, but he was too intent on finding Peter and making it clear once and for all that his conduct was unacceptable. He didn't notice the glow in the man's eyes when he told him he was Peter Pevensie's brother, barely registered the dry lips arrange themselves into a small smile. With a nod and a goodbye, he was off.

Although impatient to get hold of his brother, Edmund realised he would need to put some thought into how to go about approaching him. Deciding that nestling by the river would be as good a place to meditate on the matter as any, he headed back and, once there, sat himself on the grass several metres from the water. He closed his eyes. Now to think. What was he going to say?

Part of him insisted that it would be foolish to begin in an accusatory or aggressive way. This would just infuriate Peter all the more. But, argued another part of him, Peter seemed not to be receptive to any reasonable advances either. It could be that a good, hard tongue-lashing from Edmund might be what finally got through to him. It was worth a try.

"What exactly are you doing?"

Edmund's eyes snapped open. Peter? _Here_?

He stood, turned. The High King faced him, eyes as cool and distant as ever.

"What are you…how did you know I was…" He remembered the footsteps he had heard behind him. "You were _following_ me?" he screeched indignantly.

"I had to be sure," Peter told him quietly.

"Sure of what?"

"Sure that you would do as I asked."

"You doubted me?" Edmund was hurt and could not keep it out of his voice. Yes, he had been tempted to dispose of that stinking package, but he'd had the strength and the maturity to reject the temptation. Betrayal was a foreign word to him now. Had Peter's opinion of him plummeted to this?

"You haven't given me much reason to have faith in you lately, Edmund."

Edmund felt himself tense. He'd had enough. He'd really had enough. _May as well have it out with Peter here._

"Don't you think thanks are in order?" he asked bitterly. "I delivered the silly package, didn't I? You must have seen that with your own eyes."

"Yes," Peter agreed, "I saw. Though why you came here first, I don't know. You led me on quite a merry dance. But we finally got there so thank you, at least, for this one small favour. At least you managed to get _that_ done without causing any trouble."

A moment later, Edmund was gripping his shoulders, digging his fingers in so tightly it was painful.

"You – have – some – _nerve_," his brother hissed. "_I've_ been causing trouble? If I've made a few errors of judgment lately, it's only because _you've_ been so horrid that I've been _ill_ with worry! And you don't care! You don't even _see_ what's right in front of your eyes, because you're so puffed up with your own self-importance that everyone else is invisible to you!"

"How dare you turn the blame to me when you can't even behave like a king for _five minutes_?" Peter flared. "How dare you…"

"NO! How dare YOU!" Edmund shouted. "How dare YOU ignore me one day, snarl at me the next and do nothing but bemoan my conduct without even giving me a _chance_ to explain my side? That's no way to treat a brother, especially a brother who has done nothing more than show compassion, concern and love? You've been atrocious to me! I refuse to accept it any more, Peter! You may think you can do and say what you like, but your family isn't going to stand for it much longer, and I have had it up to here with you!"

The brothers glowered at each other. Edmund felt nothing but contempt for Peter, contempt and fury and bitterness. Contempt for the person who had put him through hell. Contempt for the person who valued him so little.

"Do you know something else?" Edmund snarled. "I almost _didn't_ deliver your precious package. I came here the first time because I planned to throw it into the river. How do you like _that_, High King? I don't owe you any favours and I would have been quite justified in slinging it as far into the depths of the water as it would go, and I _felt_ like doing so, I can tell you…"

Peter's voice shook as he next spoke. "Well, what more can be anticipated from the boy who is but a traitor?"

At that, Edmund snapped.

A fuse had broken. His head filled with frenzied buzzing, as though invaded by a nest of bees and, before he quite realised what he was doing, he had launched himself at Peter, knocked him to the floor and was pummelling him with all his might, raining blow upon blow on this person who dared shame him with an act that still caused Edmund pain when he thought about it, an act for which he had repented for as much as was humanly possible.

Momentarily stunned, Peter did nothing. But not for long. His fist drove into Edmund's face with such ferocity that Edmund was knocked backwards. And then Peter was on top of him, and both boys were grappling, punching, kicking and screaming with such savagery that they might have been a pair of tigers.

"You – _dare_ – strike your – _High King_," Peter panted, seizing Edmund's shoulders and knocking his head roughly against the grass. Edmund, for his part, placed his boot firmly into Peter's chest, sending him reeling sideways. With a roar, Peter doubled back and slammed himself against Edmund, knocking the boy even further backwards. Edmund head-butted him in the face. Peter ground his knees into Edmund's groin. Edmund wildly smacked at the side of Peter's head.

The fight went on for several minutes, each boy matching the other, until, inevitably, the strength, muscle and weight of the fifteen-year-old started to outstrip that of the boy just freshly turned eleven. Edmund found himself thrown backwards again…and again…and again. Wildly, he kicked out at Peter's face, missed, but that made his brother even more enraged. Peter threw his fist once, twice, three times into Edmund's stomach. The boy doubled over in pain and frantically rolled to the side to free himself from further punches.

For one brief second, he found himself suspended in mid-air and the sickening reminder that they had been fighting by a river stormed into his head all too late.

He had no time to be afraid. He sank into the water almost gently, instantly feeling the firm tug of a current. His head bumped against something stiff and hard – a rock? – and the last thought Edmund had before he blacked out was one of firm regret that, before now, he had not tried harder in his swimming lessons.


	10. Reconciliation

CHAPTER TEN

(RECONCILIATION)

"Edmund! EDMUND!"

Edmund became fuzzily aware of somebody screaming his name, although the voice sounded tinny and distant. A vague thumping had placed itself inside his head but, oddly, his consciousness did not appear to be fully immersed inside his skull. Part of it seemed to be hovering an inch or so higher.

"EDMUND!"

The voice was louder. He felt himself being shaken violently. His consciousness slipped further into his head, The thumping intensified. He kept his eyes closed, gradually adjusting to the sounds and feelings…he was thoroughly drenched, a twisted, soggy mess of body, wool and flannel…those hands were gripping him so tightly, the intention may have been to squeeze his soul right out of his body…

"EDMUND!"

His brother's voice. It sounded utterly panic-stricken. Punching…kicking…water…Edmund's eyes fluttered open.

Peter's face hovered overhead, bloodied, bruised and ash grey with fright, terror etched into every skin pore. Tears splashed from his eyes, wide, frantic eyes, radiating wildness.

Edmund supposed he should say something "Ugh," he groaned, raising his aching head somewhat. "I'm soaked."

"Ed! You're alive!" Peter's cry was strangled. Half a second later, Edmund found himself crushed against his brother's body, arms locked around his back, the elder Pevensie choking and gasping and peppering his head with kisses. Instinctively, Edmund's own arms flew around his brother and they remained the way they were for several long minutes, neither saying a word, the silence broken only by Peter's shuddering sobs.

When it seemed that Peter was slightly calmer, Edmund gently drew back. What a change in his brother! For so long commanding, arrogant and aggressive, Peter was now but a helpless, quivering child, eyes already staining red from weeping. Edmund drew in a long breath of his own, trying to swallow down the lump that was threatening to form in his own throat.

"I suppose this means you're not angry with me any more?" he asked lightly, trying to bring some levity to the situation.

Peter merely shook his head, unable to properly speak through his sobs.

"Ed…oh, Ed…"

"Don't cry, Peter," Edmund said, his love and compassion ballooning back. "It's all right. _I'm_ all right."

"Thought…you'd…gone…"

"You can't get rid of me that easily," Edmund joked. He slipped his arm around Peter's shoulder and nuzzled his head against the boy's neck. "I take it you dived in and hauled me out?"

Peter's voice was tremulous. "I saw you go under…and you didn't surface. Aslan knows, you can't swim very well. I couldn't move for what seemed like _forever_, though it was probably no more than thirty seconds. Everything had suddenly become very surreal, it was like I was in a dream…or a nightmare. Nothing seemed real, nothing seemed solid, my very mind seemed to have shut down."

He paused. Edmund stroked his brother's back.

"I jumped into the water. The current had already dragged you some distance away. Oh, Ed, it was strong. I had difficulty dealing with it myself. It must have taken me another full minute just to reach you. You were out cold. I had to seized the bulk of your body with my right arm and then try to swim to the bank using my legs and just my left arm. We both went underwater about four or five times but we made it. I laid you out on the grass and you appeared not to be breathing. Edmund, I was so scared. I thought you'd _died_!"

"But I didn't die," Edmund murmured, "thanks to you. You saved my life."

With a howl, Peter threw himself at his brother again, raining more kisses upon the younger boy's face before burying his head against Edmund and wailing into his chest. Edmund kept one arm around Peter's neck, the other around his lower back and this time, the brothers stayed in their tight embrace for almost an hour.

* * *

An hour later, Peter had mostly cried himself out. He and Edmund sat huddled together, Peter squeezing his brother's hand. The younger brother felt joy intermingled with awkwardness. Peter loved him again, Peter had hugged him, kissed him, and cried over him and that made him the happiest that he could possibly be…but he also felt the beginnings of shame, of guilt that he had been the cause of his brother's distress.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "If I hadn't started that fight this would never have happened. I'm sorry I frightened you so much."

"_You're_ sorry?" Peter gaped at him in amazement. "Lion's Mane, Ed, you have _nothing_ to apologise _for_! The fault is entirely mine."

"I just…don't like seeing you upset…"

"I deserve it," Peter said thickly, squeezing Edmund's hand even tighter. "I've been an utter beast to you, Edmund. You've been an absolute saint to put up with me as long as you have."

"Well…calling me a saint might be a bit of an exaggeration," Edmund suggested. "But it has been difficult."

"Edmund…" Peter kissed his brother on the forehead. "I'm so, so sorry. Sorry for everything I put you through. I've been awful and if you can't forgive me, I understand, but I just need to say…"

"Don't be silly," Edmund said fiercely, drawing Peter against him and cradling his head against his neck, "of course I forgive you. I love you. You're the person I love most in the world, even more than Mum, Dad, and the girls, and Aslan knows, I love them with every inch of my heart. Peter, you could kill me and I'd still forgive you."

"Oh, Edmund…Ed…" A few more tears slipped from Peter's eyes. He wiped them away and gave his brother a weak smile. "Edmund. Have I ever told you you're the best brother anyone could ask for?"

Edmund smiled back. "I do recall you telling me that before. Quite a few times, in fact. I never tire of hearing it," he added with a wink.

"Edmund. I'm so lucky that you ended up in _my_ family and not another. You're wonderful."

Edmund blushed. "I haven't _always_ been wonderful," he pointed out. "As I've dealt with a rotten brother lately, so did you yourself. Not only that, but I nearly delivered you straight into the Witch's hands. I don't know how you did it, but you forgave me. Even if I were to hold onto anger against you, I could never justify it, not after what I did was one thousand times worse, and yet you still loved me. I don't know if I can ever repay you for…"

"You already have, Ed," Peter told him softly. "Hundreds of times."

Edmund smiled at him. "You have a wonderful brother and I have a wonderful brother. We just sometimes forget ourselves, that's all."

"Edmund, I've been too hard on you _again_. You were right. We're still boys. I should never have expected you to act like a thirty-five-year-old King. This isn't Narnia. I'm having trouble accepting that, but I shouldn't have directed my anger to you."

"We've all struggled," Edmund told him, "but you could have come to me, Peter. I would have tried to help."

"I know," Peter choked. "I just …I was too arrogant. I've been telling myself that I'm a High King and that I don't need anyone's assistance. I've been demanding respect and obedience and not giving it in return. I've been nothing _like_ a High King. I can't imagine what worry and trauma I've caused you. I'm not surprised you felt you had to cheat in your exams. It's all my fault…"

"Peter," Edmund said firmly, "Peter listen. I _wasn't_ cheating. That night when you found me in the examination paper room…I was looking for papers to give to _you_. I'd overheard you crying about how you were falling behind in your work. I wanted to help out. It was silly, I know, and wrong, but I didn't want to see you fail your exams."

Peter sighed, a long, shuddering sigh, full of shame, remorse and despair. "You tried to tell me and I wouldn't listen," he mumbled. "How could I? How could I have so hurt the person I hold dearest to me in all the world?"

"Peter, talk to me now, if you feel you can. What has been wrong all this time? Is it just your difficulty in adjusting to life in England? Or is there anything more? Please tell me, Peter. I might be able to do something about it."

"39 Harvester Road," Peter said after a long pause.

Edmund was puzzled. "The address to which I took the package? What does that have to do with anything?"

"The gentleman who lives there – his name's Mr Tharston. You don't know him, but he and I became close last year at school when you were…well, you know…going through your difficult stage."

Edmund nodded, feeling a blush of shame rise into his cheeks.

"Don't feel bad, Edmund. I'm just telling you this so that you might understand. I…last year, in school, I really didn't know what to do. You were miserable and surly, and I know now you were suffering the most frightful bullying, but at that time, you were keeping that hidden from me. So I got angry with you, and was entirely too hard on you, but I was frightened as well, Ed. I didn't know who to turn to. I became friendly with Mr Tharston – he and I got talking on one of my outings into the town – and he became someone I could confide in. He gave me advice. He made me feel I could manage the situation somehow. He was so helpful to me, Ed."

"He sounds like an excellent man," Edmund answered. "I'd like to introduce myself properly to him, if I may."

"We came back to school last September, Ed…and I continued my visits to him. He seemed…different. Weaker. Thinner. I didn't worry at first, but it soon became plain that something was seriously wrong. He told me in December, shortly before we broke up for the holidays. He's got cancer, Ed. Quite severe cancer. He…he may not live."

"Oh, Peter." Edmund hugged his brother. "I'm sorry."

"I've felt so _helpless_," Peter said through gritted teeth. "I kept telling myself that I'm the High King of Narnia, one of Aslan's chosen, and I should be able to _do_ something for him! Yet all that's happened is that I've gone to visit him, again and again, and watched him get progressively worse. It's been awful, Edmund. I don't want him to die. I want to _stop_ it, somehow. I've said to myself that I _should_ be able to stop it. Of course, I know that's rot, but somehow…I've been so angry with myself, and I turned that anger onto you for simply being a little boy. Which is what you are. Which is what _I_ am."

"It's all right," Edmund whispered gently, running his hand through Peter's hair. "I understand."

"The package you delivered? Inside it…you might think this silly, but inside is a goblet. Harper's bookshop has a list of independent shops in America from which it orders titles, and one of the shops was advertising this goblet…it's quite old, and from one of America's earliest churches. It's reportedly blessed with healing powers. I thought maybe…I thought if I could get it to Mr Tharston…it might help…"

"I bet it will, Peter. I bet it will. Mr Tharston is lucky that he has so loyal a friend."

Peter held Edmund's gaze. "And I am lucky, so incredibly lucky, to have so loyal a brother."

The brothers embraced once more, Peter murmuring, over and over again, "I love you, Edmund. I love you," as Edmund's heart swelled with savage jubilation. He felt himself fill with such a violent cloud of elation, he was close to exploding. Edmund truly felt something more than human at that moment, it seemed that an angel had breathed fire inside of his body, a fire drowning his body in euphoria. In fact, more than that, he felt his body merging with that of an angel, found himself a part of something immaterial, something indescribable in the depth of its love and purity. And the boy felt, as long as he could keep something of this presence inside of him, that he could weather whatever trials either this world or Narnia threw at him.


	11. Epilogue

EPILOGUE

Mid-July 1941

The change had begun.

It did not happen overnight. Peter still had his own struggles and battles. There were days when he forgot himself and could be obnoxious. But never again was he to treat Edmund with the harshness and hostility that had been the mainstay of their communications since January. Edmund had his brother back, and that, Edmund thought, was worth more to him than even Narnia itself.

Peter _did_ introduce Edmund to Mr Tharston, and whether it was due to the blessed goblet, medical treatment or Peter and Edmund's own prayers (or perhaps a mixture of all three) Mr Tharston, Peter reported, seemed to be showing a slight improvement. As June slipped into July and the end of term drew near, life itself seemed to explode with the euphoria of summer.

On the last day of school before term ended, Edmund happened to notice Mr Hopper strolling in the grounds, smoking his pipe. Wanting a word with his favourite teacher before he left, he scurried down from his dormitory and caught up to Mr Hopper by the fountain. The teacher, pleased to see the boy, greeted him with a smile.

"Edmund. What a pleasure to see you. Are you sure you have time for an old fuddy-duddy like me when you could be cavorting with your chums?"

Edmund chuckled. "Even old fuddy-duddies can be exciting company."

"You young rogue." Mr Hopper cuffed his ear affectionately. "It's nice to see your mood so much lighter, Edmund. I notice that it coincides with a marked change in your brother."

"Yes." Edmund hesitated, then continued, "that's partly why I came to see you. I wanted to thank you for…for being so understanding."

"Thanks are not needed, lad. I did only my duty."

"But you were so kind, so patient…you weren't even angry with me that time I got drunk. The other masters would have flayed me alive. Why were you…so different?"

Mr Hopper was silent for a long time. He seemed to be deep in thought.

"I too have a brother," he said finally, turning his gentle, crinkled smile onto Edmund. "A brother who is closer to me than any other. A brother with whom I have struggled and fought, shared anger and shared tears. In the past we have hated each other, but there has never, _ever_ been a time when we have stopped loving one another."

"_Can_ you love and hate someone at the same time?" Edmund wondered.

"Of course, lad. Have not you?"

"I suppose so."

"I know what it is to have troubles with a sibling, Edmund. Especially one to whom you are so violently attached. How could I be anything _but_ understanding?"

Neither said anything more, but simply stood side by side by the fountain, gazing at the sun as, for that evening, it bade its farewell.


End file.
